There were strange markings on the pavement all the way from Hammersmith Station, small letters ‘b’ marked in chalk. At the front of the Chancellors, these mutated into some mathematical symbol, WLH3. Imperial College London has a campus nearby…probably some student nonsense (they should be rolling back into town this week).

I took my pint of Doom Bar (reasonably priced for the City and perfectly kept) to the tiny beer garden but it was overrun with youths — fucking university, again. Joining the old guys out front, one of them was studying the chalk marking with disgust and the one nearest me claimed to be looking it up on his phone (but I suspected internet porn).

Inside, the walls of this architecturally perfect little local are plastered with autographed photos of celebrities and athletes grouped by trade. There’s a whole Fulham FC wall, another of broadcasters (or two, if you include the cricket commentators) and a section devoted to boxing.

Now for something different and solemn. Right there, in that photo above this, I am lifting my glass in honour of a fellow I never met who died last week. In a single ejaculation, 250 million sperm are released so it is inevitable that a few of them are going to grow up to be wankers. The one that became Brownie was one of them but we needn’t hold his father (may he Rest In Peace) for this twisted lottery result. My thoughts, for this moment at least, were with the Teisher family. (See there, JT…I told you I could write something nice.)